Tate’s voice is thick with sleep, rough around the edges. “It’s seven-thirty in the morning. Please tell me the world is ending, because that’s the only acceptable reason you’re calling me right now.”
“T-T-Tate,” I choke out, the sound barely holding together as it slips past my lips.
The shift on the other end of the line is immediate. No teasing now. No humour. “Emmy,” she says, fully awake, worry threading through every syllable. “What’s wrong?”
“I, I need you to come get me,” I sob quietly, pressing the phone closer to my ear. “Now. P-please.”
“Okay.” I hear movement, sheets rustling, footsteps. “Okay, breathe. You need to tell me what’s happening. Where are you?”
I force myself to inhale, then exhale, though my breaths shake like they might splinter apart. “I’m at K-Khai’s,” I whisper. “I n-need to leave. Now.”
There’s a pause. Too long.
“Did he hurt you?” Her voice hardens, sharp and protective, like a blade being drawn.
“No,” I murmur quickly, lowering my voice even further, fear prickling along my spine. “No. But I can’t talk right now.”
Tate takes a slow, audible breath, the kind she only uses when she’s forcing herself to stay calm. “Okay,” she says, decisive. Grounded. “Drop me your pin. Get outside. Stay out of sight. I’m on my way.”
“O-okay,” I whisper, already moving, fingers trembling as I open our message thread and send my location.
“Got it,” she says. “Fifteen minutes.”
The call ends before I can respond, the line going dead in my ear.
My phone trembles in my unsteady grip as I force myself to move. I scan the apartment like it might turn on me at any second, spotting my shoes near the door, my bag slung over a chair. I move quickly, silently, gathering what little I can, every sound feeling far too loud in the oppressive quiet.
Before I can talk myself out of it, before fear can override instinct, my gaze flicks back to the kitchen island.
The paper.
My pulse spikes. I grab the kill order and shove it into my bag, my hands moving on pure reflex now. Proof. Leverage. Or maybe just a lifeline I don’t yet understand. Either way, I can’t leave it behind.
I make for the doors to the private lift, my footsteps light, careful. My finger presses the call button, and I hold my breath, silently begging it not to betray me with delay.
Seconds stretch.
Then, a softding.
The doors slide open with an almost mocking gentleness. I glance over my shoulder, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat, half-expecting to see Khai standing there, awake, watching, already knowing.
But the hallway is empty.
Relief hits hard and dizzying as I step inside the lift and press the button for the ground level. The doors remain open for a fraction too long, framing his penthouse like a threat. I stare into the space, paralysed, convinced that any second now he’ll emerge from the bedroom, eyes sharp, voice calm, asking me where I think I’m going.
I don’t breathe.
I grip the handrail, bracing myself for the moment everything goes wrong.
Then the doors glide shut.
The lift begins its descent.
My lungs finally draw in air, a shaky breath breaking free as my shoulders sag just slightly. For the first time since I saw the truth laid bare on that island, I allow myself a sliver of safety.
Just a moment.
The lift doors slide open a few minutes later, releasing me into a space that looks more like the lobby of a luxury hotel than the ground floor of a residential building. Polished marble. Soft lighting. The illusion of calm.
